


Tell the Ones That Need to Know (We Are Headed North)

by vixleonard



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Cousin Incest, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Relationship, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-05 03:36:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10296587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixleonard/pseuds/vixleonard
Summary: After years of confinement in the Red Keep with Ned prisoner in the black cells, the Dragon Queen comes.  With the knowledge that Jon Snow is actually a Targaryen, she agrees to let the Starks return to Winterfell only if Jon marries one of the Stark daughters.  Sansa volunteers so they can all go home.  Soon she figures out being married to Jon isn't bad but itiscomplicated.





	1. I Cut the Ties and I Jumped the Tracks for Never to Return

**Author's Note:**

> Titles comes from "I And Love And You" by The Avett Brothers

In so many ways, Sansa still cannot believe it has happened. When the Dragon Queen descended upon King’s Landing, Sansa expected to die, for her poor father wasting away in the Black Cells to be put to death at long last, for Winterfell to cease to exist. Everyone knew her father helped King Robert put an end to the Targaryens; why wouldn’t Daenerys Targaryen seek to do the same?

It is Jon Snow who saves them, who saves the North. 

Sansa still struggles to believe that Jon is Rhaegar Targaryen’s son rather than her father’s bastard, that poor Aunt Lyanna was his mother. And she is even more surprised that her father kept a secret for so long. But whatever happened to Jon at the Wall, whatever brought the secret to the light, suddenly he is not Jon Snow anymore. He is Jon Targaryen, and whatever claim he has to the Iron Throne, he trades away for Ned Stark’s release, for the safe return on the Starks to the North.

There is a catch, of course. Having rebelled against the Iron Throne once, even if it _was_ against the Lannister controlled throne, she must ensure such a thing will not happen again. She tries to take one of the boys as hostage – Robb or Rickon, and it angers Sansa that Bran is considered less valuable than the others – but Jon will not hear of it. None of them will. They are the Starks of Winterfell, and they will not let anyone separate them ever again.

And so Daenerys makes a final offer: if a Stark will not remain in King’s Landing, then a Targaryen must be tied to Winterfell. Jon immediately says he has no problem returning to the North, but that is not what Queen Daenerys means.

There are two Stark girls, Daenerys declares. Jon’s only decision in the matter is which he will wed to bind the North to the Iron Throne.

Sansa wants to go home. She wants to wander the Glass Gardens and see her mother and lay flowers on Lady’s grave. It is all she wants in the world, and it is why when Arya gasps that it is disgusting to ever think of marrying Jon, who is her brother no matter what anyone says, Sansa promptly volunteers.

“Are you certain?” Ned asks, and his face is so gaunt and sunken in, it is not even a question for her.

“Of course.”

Jon says nothing. He can barely even look at her.

They wed in the godswood of King’s Landing, a poor substitute for the one at Winterfell. Sansa thinks of the wedding she always imagined, of her mother helping to dress her hair and wearing a beautiful gown. When she weds Jon, she wears a simple blue gown and a hastily made Stark cloak for Jon to replace with a finer Targaryen cloak. Only Arya and Father are there, and Sansa notices both look away when Jon places a perfunctory kiss upon her lips.

There’s no feast, no celebration. They’ll leave for Winterfell in the morning, but first the marriage must be sealed. Sansa is grateful to skip the bedding ceremony, but the idea of _being_ bedded makes her heart race fearfully. She knows Jon is not cruel, that he will not harm her, but she imagined sharing a bed with her husband to be something romantic. There is nothing romantic about a forced marriage to a man you thought was your brother until a few moons ago.

She goes to the chamber they are to share first, Jon remaining at the dinner table to allow her to get ready. Sansa is not certain what she is to do to prepare. Though her mother explained what getting her moonblood meant and Septa Mordane said it was her duty to be a pleasing wife, no one provided the specifics. Queen Cersei made vicious implications when she had too much wine in her, but even those were largely confusing to Sansa. 

She’s able to take down her hair and remove her gown, carefully folding it and placing it atop her trunk before her nerves start to get the best of her. Jon is a kind man, she tries to remind herself as she perches on the edge of the bed in her shift. He won’t hurt her, not intentionally. So long as she can hold that thought in her mind, mayhaps she can get through this.

Her heart skips a beat when he enters, unsure what is to happen. Jon looks at her, his face serious and sad, as he says, “We do not have to do this. I will not force you.”

“I want to go home,” is all Sansa offers in reply.

Jon undresses with the same slow care she did, until he wears nothing but his shirt and smallclothes. Sansa rises because she is not certain what else to do, her hands playing with the sides of her shift.

“Do I – Do I remove this? I was not sure…”

Sansa’s voice tapers off as Jon studies her, and she sees there’s attraction in his face. She has learned to spot it while in King’s Landing, and the instinctive urge she always has to twist away from it is sharp. The men of Joffrey’s court loved to look at her, say disgusting things to her about what they wanted to use her for, but this is different. Jon is her husband now. A husband is supposed to look at his wife with attraction. After all, it was the way her father looked at her mother that inspired so many of her childish romantic fantasies.

“If you would like,” Jon finally answers.

 

She is still unused to her breasts, the flesh that seemed to grow over night to draw even more disgusting gazes. The idea of bearing them now makes her cross her arms across her chest and shake her head.

They climb into bed tentatively, as if it is something far more treacherous than it is. Sansa lies back against the pillows, closing her eyes and waiting for Jon to complete the deed.

Her eyes pop open in shock when instead of feeling Jon between her legs, he brushes a tentative kiss against her mouth. Their eyes lock for a moment, Jon’s face close and just as uncertain as her own, and Sansa lets her eyes drift closed again, tilting her chin slightly to invite another kiss. So long as he is kissing her, the bedding could be put off.

He braces himself over her, his kisses slow and soft. They are different from the kisses forced on her over the past few years, and Sansa finds herself responding. She is surprised when Jon’s tongue brushes against her closed mouth, her lips parting to inhale sharply, and the touch of his tongue against hers sends a ripple of sensation through her.

Sansa is not certain how long they have been kissing when she feels Jon’s calloused fingers brush against her inner thigh. She is hot, her skin alive with sensation, her smallclothes damp with desire, but still Jon’s touch startles her, reminding her of what exactly this is leading up to.

“May I touch you?” Jon asks, his voice rough with desire, and Sansa bites her lip before nodding.

It sets her on fire, his calloused fingertips against the delicate tissue she’s only explored a few times under the cover of night. She moans despite herself, clutching the bedclothes in tight fists, and Jon whispers her name, breathes compliments against her skin.

Her peak steals her breath, makes her hide her face against her shoulder at her wantonness. Jon presses kisses against the line of her jaw, the point of her chin, the tip of her nose. Sansa tentatively turns her face back to him, allowing him to kiss her gently.

“Are you well?”

She nods, the bedclothes still clutched in her hands. “Have you – You’ve bedded a woman before, haven’t you?”

Shame floods Jon’s face as he nods. “Aye.”

“Did you love her?”

The shame becomes guilt. “Aye.”

“You can pretend I’m her if it will make this better for you.”

Jon blinks in surprise before withdrawing some, sitting back on his heels, kneeling between her still splayed thighs. She flushes in embarrassment at obviously having offended him and begins to sit up before Jon lays a soft hand against her breastbone. Sansa stills, unsure whether to apologize or not.

“I don’t need to pretend in order to want you, Sansa. But if…if you need to pretend I’m someone else – “

“No, I – “ Sansa finishes pushing herself into a sitting position, dropping her chin to her chest to avoid his eyes. “There’s no one I’ve ever thought of doing this with here. They were not – No one was kind to me.”

Jon raises her chin with two fingers. His grey eyes meeting her blue ones, he swears, “I will always be kind to you. _Always_.”

Sansa cannot help the tears that flood her eyes, emotion overwhelming her. With a shaky exhalation, she cups Jon’s face and whispers, “Then I do not need to pretend either.”

* * *

She can scarcely look at him in the morning.

The servants stoking the fire wake her, and as Sansa reaches up to rub her eyes, the first thing she sees in Jon’s bare chest. Suddenly she is wide awake, painfully aware of her nudity and the dull ache between her thighs, and Jon moves, drawing the bedclothes up over her body as he dismisses the servants.

“Good morning,” he mumbles, scrubbing his face with his hands, and his voice sounds rough. Sansa blushes as she remembers the words he said in that roughened voice, the words that made her shiver and moan and clutch his shoulders tighter.

“Good morning,” she manages, keeping a firm grasp of the blankets, and when Jon leans over to brush a kiss against her lips, she’s certain she’s blushing to the very tips of her toes.

She cannot help but steal glances at him as he dresses, admiring the lines of his back, the movement of his muscles. There are light pink scratches on his shoulder blades, and Sansa realizes she left those on him when she peaked, his fingers rubbing her with his…with _him_ inside of her. The impulse to pull the blankets over her head and pray to disappear intensifies.

“I have to meet Daenerys and Aegon in the throne room,” Jon says, and Sansa forces herself to look at him. “Arya and Fath - _your_ father are in the Tower of the Hand. Do you want me to provide you an escort or – “

“No, I know the way.”

Jon nods curtly, and Sansa feels a curtain falling between them, the warmth and intimacy of the night giving way to the cold light of day. When he leaves their chamber, Sansa settles back into the mattress and shivers as she catches the scent of Jon lingering on her pillow.

Sansa climbs from the bed and pauses as she catches her reflection in the long looking glass across the room. She crosses the room, standing before it and studying herself. Normally she’d find such a thing a terrible exercise in vanity, but she cannot help it. Twisting her body, Sansa searches for a physical sign she is different, that her body matches the change she feels inside. There’s a light bruise near the edge of her collarbone Sansa knows is the result of Jon’s suckling mouth but otherwise she looks the same as she did before becoming Jon’s wife, before giving him her maidenhead.

Before coming south, back when Septa Mordane told her and Jeyne Poole about what happened between a lord and lady in the bedchamber, she and Jeyne were so convinced there must be some physical sign a girl ruined her honor. _How else would their fathers know?_ Jeyne reasoned then, and it made sense to Sansa then. After all, she was such an innocent with no idea of what was to come. She hadn’t even really understood what Septa Mordane was describing. Back then she still thought her father kissing her mother was what created Rickon.

She and Jon had done far more than kiss, and even as a blush climbs up her chest towards her face Sansa can’t help but giggle, her stomach fluttering with excitement and nervousness.

This isn’t the marriage she imagined and she is not sure what she feels for Jon is love, but she is glad he was the one to share her bed.

* * *

“I think it’s disgusting,” Arya informs her the moment their father retires to his chamber for a nap, “making you marry Jon, making you _bed_ him. He’s our brother!”

“Cousin,” Sansa corrects, “and keep your voice down. You’ll upset Father.”

“He’s already upset. I heard him crying last night after you and Jon got sent away from the feast.”

Sansa winces, not wanting to imagine her father crying while she found pleasure in Jon’s arms. “Please stop.”

“At least we get to go home,” Arya continues, “and never have to come back here again. Thank the gods for that.”

“Yes.”

Arya smiles, her face brightening. “We’ll get to see Mother and Robb and Bran and Rickon. I bet Rickon is as tall as me now.”

“That wouldn’t take much,” Sansa teases, a slow smile starting to stretch across her face. “But I will be so happy to see them again. Robb has a wife now. Can you imagine?”

Arya shakes her head. “Sometimes I – I forgot what they look like. When Queen Cersei would have me locked in my chamber, I’d try to remember but…I thought we’d die here or they’d die there.”

“None of us are dead though. We survived.”

“So the Dragon Queen could make you marry Jon.”

“Arya – “

She holds up her hands. “I can’t help if it’s wrong. And you know everyone else will think it is too. You’re not _really_ going to be married when we get home, are you?”

Sansa looks out the window at the Blackwater. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

* * *

It will take a moon’s turn to reach Winterfell, Sansa riding in the litter with her still weakened father while Arya insists on riding alongside Jon. While Sansa often felt like a prisoner in the Red Keep, Arya _was_ one. Just because she wasn’t kept in a Black Cell like Father didn’t mean Queen Cersei ever allowed her out of her room, and, even when Arya _was_ allowed out, it was always with guards. Sansa hears Arya whooping with excitement outside the litter, Jon’s laughter and cries to slow down audible as well, and Sansa smiles as does Ned.

“I never thought I’d hear that sound again,” he says, closing his eyes for a beat before opening them.

Sansa reaches out, resting her hand atop his. “We’re all well, Father. We’re safe, and we’re going home.”

Ned winces as they hit a rock in the road, straightening his body in a futile attempt at getting comfortable. “Sansa, what you’ve done so we – “

“We do not need to discuss it, Father,” she cuts in with a shaky smile. “I did what I wanted to do.”

Ned shakes his head. “Sansa – “

“You told me once you wanted me to marry someone kind and gentle and brave, and that is what I’ve done. You needn’t worry about me. I’m well.”

And for the first time since leaving Winterfell all those years ago, it almost feels true.

* * *

The first inn they spend the night in is a small place just outside the Crownlands. Sansa cannot believe the way the smallfolk react to her, taking the knee and referring to her as “Princess Sansa.” Intellectually she knows Jon is a prince, that marrying him has made her a princess, but she still thinks of him as just Jon, the boy who ran at Robb’s side, the one who would sneak her lemoncakes when Arya upset her and taught her how to skip a smooth stone across the water. 

The Riverlands fought with Robb’s army, and the men all pay their respects to Ned. Sansa watches, taking it all in, while Arya asks questions about the battles they fought. Sometimes Sansa marvels at how much the world has changed since King Robert came to Winterfell. Trapped in King’s Landing, it is like the world went on without her, and unlike Arya, Sansa doesn’t know if she wants to learn the particulars of it.

“We’ve saved the finest room for you and your bride,” the fat innkeeper announces to Jon, and Sansa feels Arya and Ned stiffen from across the room. “We’ve never had a real prince stay here.”

“Thank you,” Jon says with a small smile and Sansa remembers her courtesies, thanking him as well and praising him for his kindness.

The finest room is small, the mattress flattened but stuffed with feathers rather than straw like the other rooms. A fire is stoked, her trunk near the bed, and as Sansa shrugs out of her gown she opens it to find a fresh shift.

She hears the door open, the tentative steps on the creaking boards without a doubt Jon’s, and a moment later he offers, “I can sleep on the floor. It couldn’t be worse than my accommodations at the Wall.”

Sansa straightens, wearing only her soiled shift. She studies him, remembering their night together, and eventually says, “Is that what you want?”

Jon looks at her, his eyes hot. “No.”

Reaching up, Sansa loosens the strings of her shift, letting it drop to the floor.

* * *

It keeps happening. 

Sansa wishes she felt worse about it, each morning waking and vowing to stop it. Husband or not, it would break her father’s heart to know what’s happening between his daughter and the nephew he raised as his son. Sansa knows it disgusts Arya and will likely disgust her brothers and mother as well. She cannot even imagine what Septa Mordane would say, seeing her behave this way, begging Jon for more when she should be telling him to stop.

 _I’m a deviant_ , Sansa thinks one morning as she braids her hair, preparing for another day’s long journeying. _I’m a disgrace._

But when Jon comes to their room each night, touching her with gentle hands and telling her how beautiful she is, Sansa does not feel those things. After so many years of being terrified and depressed, this cannot be so bad, can it?

She hasn’t been to Riverrun since before Rickon was born and the only reason she knows it is her mother’s childhood home are the Tully banners flying above it. Uncle Edmure greets them with smiles, embracing her and Arya with more familiarity than is probably appropriate, clapping Ned on the back hard enough that Sansa wants to tell him to stop. His introduction to Jon is more subdued, and Sansa suddenly remembers the sight of Jon, all of nine-years-old, standing in the yard at Winterfell with Old Nan as they left for Riverrun, Ned Stark’s bastard unwelcome in his good-father’s home.

A war hero, a lost Targaryen prince, a savior of the North, but as Sansa looks at him here, she sees the half-brother who always tried to make himself invisible.

Edmure gives them separate bedchambers, and it is the first time they will sleep apart since leaving King’s Landing. He happily tells Sansa this was once her mother’s room, Arya across the hall in Aunt Lysa’s old chamber, her father resting in Grandfather Hoster’s former quarters. Sansa does not know where Jon is and she knows she should not ask. It would raise questions.

“It’s beautiful here,” Sansa remarks as she and Arya walk along the walls, taking in the rushing water surrounding the castle.

“I’m sick of the South,” Arya replies. She blows at a piece of loose hair hanging in her eyes, and Sansa still can’t believe the change in her. Arya turned four-and-ten on her last name day, and while she is still short and waifish from the “forgotten” meals in the Red Keep, she is growing more beautiful every day.

“I’m never leaving the North again,” her sister declares, and Sansa believes it. Hells, she even agrees with it. Nothing good came from leaving home.

“No Southron husband for you then?” Sansa teases, catching sight of a group of men coming in from the stables. She squints, makes out it is Uncle Edmure, Jon, Father, and Great-Uncle Brynden.

Arya snorts. “I’d throw myself off this wall first. I’m never getting married.”

“It isn’t as bad as you may think,” Sansa murmurs as Jon spots them, lifting his hand to wave.

“Only because you have a fake marriage.” Arya shrugs. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind one of those.”

Sansa says nothing.

She likes Uncle Edmure’s wife Jeyne. Though there is a sadness to her Sansa recognizes, Jeyne Westerling of the Crag is polite and friendly, the sort of pleasant company that makes Sansa wonder about Jeyne Poole and the others she once called friends. Her belly is swollen with a child due in only a couple of moons, and Sansa marvels at the feel of it moving beneath her gown.

“He’ll be a strong babe.”

Jeyne nods, blinking away tears even as she rubs her hands over her stomach. “Yes, I think so too.”

“Uncle Edmure must be so happy.”

A puzzled expression crosses Jeyne’s features for a moment before she mumbles an agreement. And then she looks at Sansa and asks, “How is Robb?” and Sansa understands why Jeyne Westerling is so sad.

Arya cannot keep a secret. If Sansa tells her little sister what she suspects, Arya will be outraged on Jeyne’s behalf and tell Father. And Sansa _is_ outraged on Jeyne’s behalf and for Robb’s Frey wife as well, but if there is anything Sansa’s learned since leaving Winterfell, it is how quickly the world spirals out of your control.

Her thoughts are still full of Jeyne and her baby when Jon approaches her after dinner, his voice so low she can barely hear it at all. He touches her elbow, his lips hardly moving as he whispers, “May I come to you tonight?”

Struggling to keep her expression flat so no one suspects they are speaking about anything more important than the weather, she manages, “I would like that.”

It seems as if the night drags on after that. By the time the castle is starting to turn in for the night, Sansa feels ready to leap out of her skin. She undresses, changing into her finest silk shift and takes down her hair. In their time together she’s noticed Jon’s love for her hair, the way he cards his fingers through it, strokes it when they have finished and are lying entwined. Sansa brushes her hair until it shines, needing something to do as she waits.

The soft rapping on her chamber door makes her heart skip with anticipation. It has been three weeks since they arrived at Riverrun, three weeks of days and nights spent apart, and Sansa’s surprised by her own eagerness for Jon’s presence.

He is on her the moment she opens the door, dropping the bar behind him even as he takes her into his arms. Sansa wraps her arms around his neck, moaning into his mouth as they stumble backwards towards her bed, and she giggles as Jon trips, the two of them almost spilling to the floor.

“Even I break my ankle, we’re doing this before calling the maester,” he pants as he pulls his shirt over his head, Sansa already working the laces of his pants.

“Daenerys will have me arrested for maiming the prince,” Sansa laughs, unable to resist the urge to press a kiss to the center of his chest even as she pushes his pants and smallclothes down his hips.

Jon moans, leaning down to kiss her again while tugging at the ties of her shift. “I’d grant you a royal pardon.”

“How kind of you.” Sansa shivers as Jon removes her shift, blushing a bit at the way his eyes go wide as he realizes she wears nothing beneath it. He eases her back on the bed, and Sansa goes at once, humming in pleasure at the feel of him against her after such a separation. 

“A prince should be kind.”

Sansa tries not to flinch as the words remind her of a prince who was anything but kind yet Jon senses her hesitation. He pauses a moment, kissing her long and slow, and breathes against her mouth, “He’s gone and I’m here. No one will ever hurt you again, Sansa. I swear it to the Old Gods and the New.”

As her eyes fill with tears, Sansa stretches upward, kissing him as she wraps her arms around him, her hands resting on his shoulders. “You’re a good man, Jon Targaryen.”

He wrinkles his nose. “If we’re not in the Red Keep, I’d rather not be a Targaryen. Unless it bothers you, being wed to a man with a bastard’s name.”

Sansa eases her legs up to cradle his hips. “I don’t care what your name is so long as you’re the man I’m wed to.”

“Gods,” he sighs as he eases himself inside her, burying his face in her shoulder. As she begins to move with him, she swears she hears him murmur, “I love you.”

But while Sansa loves so many things about Jon and all he has done for them, she isn’t quite ready to admit to him or herself that she may just be in love with him.

After, as Sansa traces shapes on his bare chest and Jon dozes, she confesses her suspicions about Jeyne, Robb, and the babe she carries. Jon is quiet for so long Sansa worries he’s fallen asleep but then Jon says, “When it’s time, after we’ve taken the Dreadfort and made it our own, we’ll offer to foster him. And if the child is a girl, we’ll make certain she has a good match.”

While Sansa is happy to hear Jon agrees with her about Robb’s child, she realizes she hasn’t thought about the Dreadfort at all. When the Dragon Queen came, she punished the Boltons for their support of the Lannisters and treatment of poor Lady Hornwood, putting Lord Bolton and his bastard to death and taking their holdings. The Dreadfort was to be Jon’s castle to rule from the North, near enough to Winterfell and the Wall and far enough from King’s Landing. So excited to return to Winterfell, Sansa forgot it wasn’t necessarily going to be their final destination.

“We don’t…have to move there straight off, do we?”

Jon holds her tighter. “There’s far too much to do before it comes to that. And…and if it bothers you, you can stay at Winterfell forever if you like. I can always come and visit.”

Trying to keep her voice light, she says, “Do you plan on keeping me at Winterfell and having a wildling girl at the Dreadfort? I’ve heard the men whisper you have a wildling princess waiting for you.”

Jon frowns, looking more like the boy Sansa remembers from childhood. “Val isn’t a princess nor is she waiting for me. We are friends. And I wouldn’t do that to you. I meant my vows.”

Sansa sifts her fingers through the trail of dark hair from Jon’s navel to the bedclothes. “I learned at court how men are. You couldn’t last a moon’s turn without a woman in your bed.”

Jon catches her hand, Sansa’s eyes snapping to meet his. “I couldn’t last a moon’s turn without _you_ in my bed. I wanted my wife, not just any woman I could find. Would you want just any man?”

Offended, Sansa sits straight up. “Of course not!”

Jon eases to a sitting position, scrubbing at his face. “I should get back to my chamber.”

Sansa doesn’t sleep the rest of the night.

* * *

“We’ll reach Winterfell tomorrow.”

Sansa folds her gown, setting it on her trunk. “Yes, Arya won’t stop talking about it. I’m surprised she hasn’t stolen a horse to finish the journey herself.”

Jon smiles as he toes off his boots. “I’ve been thinking and talking to Father.”

Sansa freezes. “Oh?”

“You know how he and Arya feel about…” Jon gestures between them. “You know what they think.”

“That we’re enduring a marriage for the good of the family and we’re siblings as much as we ever were?”

He nods. “It will be harder at Winterfell with everyone about to…carry on as we have.”

“You mean sharing a chamber or sneaking into mine?”

A hint of blush colors Jon’s cheeks. “I think we need to decide if we…if we plan on telling the truth or if we want to behave the way they want us to behave. That is to say – “

“Am I your wife or your sister? Yes, I understand.” Sansa sighs, truly thinking. Finally she manages, “I didn’t expect for us to…I didn’t expect to feel the things I’ve felt with you.”

“I didn’t either.”

“Father is still so weak, and I haven’t seen my mother in so long. Robb is your best friend, and I’m not certain Bran or Rickon would understand right away. Mayhaps…we pretend for just a bit, until we go to the Dreadfort. We’ll be siblings at Winterfell and eventually we…send a raven and let them know our marriage has changed.”

Jon nods, handsome face serious as ever. “It seems a reasonable plan.”

“So that will be it then.”

They sit for a moment just looking at each other before Sansa exhales sharply in exasperation. “Well, if tonight is the last night you’re going to be my husband, I should hope you want to do more than just look at me.”

Jon’s smile is slow, widening into a bright grin. “Anyone ever told you that you’re spoiled?”

“You did, quite a bit actually when we were children.”

“I was a smart man then.” Jon gets to his feet, crossing the room and making Sansa gasp by grabbing her hips and pulling her tight against him. “Shall I spoil you then?”

Sansa bites a bruise into the flesh of her hand to keep from waking the entire inn by screaming her pleasure as Jon’s mouth works between her thighs.

* * *

The sight of Winterfell brings Sansa to tears. It catches her by surprise, the emotion stealing her breath, and it surprises her even more when her father starts to silently cry as well.

Arya is not silent. She whoops with happiness and excitement and takes off ahead of the litter.

Mother holds her and Arya so tight, Sansa starts to wonder if she’ll ever let them go. She only does when Father approaches, and she starts to sob all over again when Father wraps her up into a hug. Robb and Bran are all excited, Rickon’s excitement coming more from seeing his family’s excitement than his own. Sansa isn’t certain her baby brother truly remembers them, but she doesn’t care, not now when happiness has finally found them again.

“Do I have to take the knee now?” Robb teases as he embraces Jon, thumping him on the back, and Jon shoves him, the two startling to wrestle about like children again, complete with Old Nan clapping her hands to try to get them to stop.

Everything is the same and everything is different, and Sansa doesn’t know what to make of it all.

“So you finally became a princess,” Robb says as he embraces her. “You always said you would.”

“Yes, well, I _will_ require you to take the knee at all times,” Sansa declares in a faux-imperious tone.

Robb laughs. “I still can’t believe the Dragon Queen made the two of you marry to let you all come home. It’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. But who cares so long as you’re home, eh? You’ll have to meet Roslin, my wife, and Mother already had your old rooms all prepared for you.”

As the servants set about collecting their trunks to carry inside, Sansa exchanges a look with Jon, who offers a small smile before following Robb into the keep. Catelyn wraps an arm around Sansa’s shoulders, kissing her temple, and Sansa wonders when being home will truly feel like home again.


	2. Are You Aware the Shape I'm In?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up getting a little more plot heavy than expected, so it will have a few extra parts. I tried my best to make it just smut, but apparently I can't do it without the angst.
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr as vixleonard.

For years while she was trapped inside the Red Keep, Sansa dreamt of her chamber in Winterfell, of the safety and peace she felt there. She remembered the horrible morning she discovered she’d flowered, and as she tried to destroy the evidence of her entry into womanhood, she longed for the bed she lay in as Old Nan told her stories, as her mother stroked her hair, as Lady slept at her feet.

Yet here she is, home at last, and she can’t sleep.

When they arrived at Winterfell a fortnight earlier, Sansa wept when she was finally alone in her chamber. Everything was exactly as she left it, and the ghost of the girl she used to be overwhelmed her. She sat at the foot of her bed and cried herself dry, allowing herself to really let loose for the first time in years. But that night when her head was on her pillow and the furs pulled up to her chin, Sansa lay awake until almost dawn. She blamed the excitement of the day, of the month, of the past six months.

But it kept happening. Every night Sansa said her goodnights to her family, retired to her chamber, and stared at the ceiling until exhaustion took her, resulting in a few hours sleep if she was fortunate. She spent her days trying to stifle yawns and ignore her mother’s concerned glances, pretending to be happy. And it wasn’t that she _un_ happy. Being back at Winterfell, having Bran and Rickon close again, watching Arya laugh with happiness as she stood in a rainstorm for the first time in years, seeing Father’s face start to fill out as he put weight back on, all of it made Sansa so happy, she felt as if her heart would burst from it all.

But it also made the absences feel more acute: sweet Jory Cassel, Septa Mordane, Jeyne Poole. She could still see Jory’s and Septa Mordane’s heads atop the pikes on Traitor’s Walk, frozen in death; she remembered the warmth of Jory’s embrace the night Cersei sentenced Lady to die, the stern bravery in Septa Mordane’s tone as she ordered Sansa to return to the Tower of the Hand when the Kingsguard came. Jeyne’s sobs and pleas as they took her away still rang in Sansa’s ears, and while Sansa was grateful Jeyne’s head wasn’t among the ones Joffrey forced her to gaze upon that day, not knowing what happened to her was worse.

And because she couldn’t explain that, because she couldn’t escape what happened, Sansa didn’t sleep. 

When she shuffles downstairs to break her fast, Sansa fights to keep her eyes open, smiling when Rickon demands she sit by him. She takes a seat beside her youngest brother, ruffling his hair and pressing a kiss to the top of his head, and it isn’t until she’s sitting down she realizes Jon is seated across from her, sandwiched between Arya and Robb.

His brow furrows when he looks at her, concern on his face, and Sansa forces herself to smile. He seems to see through the attempt, opening his mouth to say something, but Sansa minutely shakes her head. 

“Can we go riding today?” Arya asks Jon around a mouthful of bacon. Like their father, she’s gained a substantial amount of weight in the short time since being freed and it’s changed her look. Sometimes Sansa catches their father looking at her, smiling but so sad too, and she wonders if he’s seeing Aunt Lyanna. It’s shameful to admit but Sansa never thought much about her aunt. Like Uncle Brandon, he was a footnote in her personal history, a person who existed and died long before Sansa was born, a tragic character in a story no more real to her than Florian and Jonquil.

Jon chuckles as Robb passes him a plate of sausages. “We’ll get nothing done if all we do is ride.”

“You’re a prince now. You get to be lazy.”

Jon’s chuckle becomes a full belly laugh. “Is that so?”

“Joffrey was lazy.” Arya chews, considering. “And crazy. So you can be either I suppose.”

“Well, I’ve known some kings, and none of them were lazy.”

Bran’s eyes grow wide as he presses, “Do you mean the King-Beyond-the-Wall?”

“Did you see a giant?” Rickon chimes in.

As the conversation devolves into a thousand questions about the wildlings, Sansa hides her yawns in her cup of milk and tries to not to fall asleep in her eggs.

Her mother hovers now. She hovers over Father, making certain he eats and encouraging him to rest his leg, which never healed correctly after being injured and shoved in a cell for years. She hovers over Arya, forcing her to come inside when she wants to spend every second outdoors now and urging extra portions on her. And she hovers over Sansa, asking how she’s feeling and if she wants to go on walks together. She loves her mother so much, longed for her for so long, but when Catelyn talks now, Sansa hears the questions she _doesn’t_ ask.

“Joffrey didn’t rape me,” Sansa imagines telling her on their walks. “He threatened to do it and he had me stripped before court and beaten so many times, I lost count, but he never raped me. I denounced our house before the entire court. I called Father and Robb traitors. Sometimes I forgot to hate Tyrion because at least he would try to intervene when Joffrey went too far. I tried to engineer a marriage to Willas Tyrell so I could escape, and I would’ve left Father and Arya behind just so I would be spared from Joffrey’s bed. I hated Robb for never coming for us. I’m afraid I hate him still.”

But Sansa doesn’t say any of that. She practices saying it at night when she can’t sleep, but it never comes out during the day. And today, after she and Catelyn take a turn around the yard, Sansa stays outside, wandering about like a lost child.

The bump against her hip startles her near the Broken Tower, but she smiles when she sees Ghost. She scratches between his ears, murmuring nonsense to him, a moment before she hears Jon say behind her, “You’ve spoiled him.”

“He could use some spoiling. You’ve let him get a bit wild at the Wall.” Sansa smiles as Jon comes to stand with her, jostling Ghost a bit with his body in a playful way. “I’ve brushed entirely too many burs from his coat.”

“Should I worry you’ll braid ribbons into his fur?”

“Well he has to look finer than his brothers now that he’s the royal direwolf.”

She loves Jon’s grin, the easy way it spreads across his face, the openness that didn’t use to be there. He still doesn’t smile much; he’s always been like Ned that way, a comparison Sansa doesn’t like making now. But during their brief marriage, Sansa’s been on the receiving end of enough of his smiles to appreciate them when given.

“And how are you, my lady?”

She considers lying to him the same as everyone else but instead she says, “Tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

His smile fades a bit as he admits, “Me either. It’s…strange being back here, especially when I never thought I would be except as a guest like Uncle Benjen.”

“Is it different now or are we?”

“The whole world’s different.” Jon smirks, gesturing to the two of them. “ _We’re_ not what we used to be.”

Despite her exhaustion, Sansa blushes a bit. “No, we’re not.”

Her heart beats faster as Jon steps into her, cupping her cheek. The touch is gentle, his fingertips cool and calloused, and Sansa leans into it, letting her eyes drift shut for a moment. She feels Jon’s lips against her forehead as he whispers, “What can I do to help, Sansa?”

She shocks herself by replying, “You should come to me tonight.”

Jon pulls back, surprise on his face and desire in his eyes. “I thought we said – “

“If you don’t want – “

“Of course I want you.” Stealing a look around to make sure they are still alone, he adds, “But your room is too near your parents’ chamber. If someone saw me – “

“Then I’ll come to you.” Pulling back as she hears the crunch of boots approaching from around the corner, Sansa says, “Leave your door unbarred tonight,” before hurrying away, her skirts swishing around her ankles.

The rest of the day takes forever. By the time the rest of the keep is asleep, Sansa is anxious, climbing the walls with impatience. As she opens her door and starts to sneak down the corridors, she remembers the last time she did this, smothering giggles with Jeyne as they stole lemoncakes from the kitchens. They’d still been children then, certain about everything and knowing nothing.

Jeyne never would’ve believed the next time Sansa snuck out of her chamber would be to meet Jon Snow. 

She would’ve died to learn Jon Snow was really Jon Targaryen, a prince hidden as a Northern bastard like some story they would’ve loved to listen to Old Nan tell.

Gods, she misses Jeyne.

Jon’s door opens without a sound, and it isn’t until Sansa drops the bar she realizes she hasn’t been in Jon’s room since Arya was a babe. Back then, after Father came home from fighting the Ironborn Rebellion with Theon, she still ran after her big brothers, put off by screaming, infant Arya who stole her toys and pulled her hair. His chamber is still neat as a pin, far neater than Robb’s ever was, and Jon is in his bed, leaning against the headboard, naked to the waist, a book open in his lap.

“A prince should really have a guard at his door,” she says as she approaches the bed, Jon marking his page and setting his book on the bedside table. “What if I was a rogue assassin?”

“I can think of far worse ways to die than abed with a beautiful rogue assassin.” He catches the edge of her nightgown between two fingers, feeling the slick slide of the silk. “Besides, I don’t think you’re armed.”

“Queen Cersei told me once the most dangerous weapon I possessed was between my thighs.”

Jon rises onto his knees as Sansa climbs onto the bed. As he takes her into his arms, he says, “Well I don’t know what Cersei Lannister had between her legs, but I find yours rather appealing.”

She laughs before kissing him, melting against him. It amazes her how she went so long without an ounce of kindness and simply learned to live with it. Jon’s kindness, his gentleness, it’s awakened something in her she didn’t even know existed. As she slides her hands down his chest, finding the knot of his smallclothes, she whispers against his mouth, “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m right here, Sansa. I’m not going anywhere.”

She turns her eyes up to him, a lump rising in her throat. “Swear it.”

Jon cups her face and says, “I swear it by the Old Gods and the New, I will never leave you.”

After, as she lies drowsing in the circle of his arms, she mumbles, “I should go back to my chamber.”

Jon kisses her brow, holding her tighter. “Sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

She starts spending every night in Jon’s bed, sleeping soundly in his arms before stealing back to her chamber before the servants rise.

* * *

The letter arrives during midday, the three-headed dragon seal making Sansa freeze before ripping it open. Maester Luwin and Catelyn both look at her in surprise before Maester Luwin ventures, “The letter is addressed to Jon, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa doesn’t look up from the parchment. “Mother opens Father’s letters. Jon won’t mind.”

“But it _is_ a letter from the queen – “

“Yes,” Sansa cuts in, rereading the words written in Daenerys’s bold hand, “and I’ll make certain he receives it.”

“Is everything all right?” Roslin asks, her mending on her lap.

“Of course,” Sansa lies.

She finds Jon in the yard with her brothers, Arya perched on a barrel and shouting directions as he and Robb spar with wooden swords. Father and Ser Rodrik watch with fond smiles, and everyone is laughing, happy. It is the sort of picture Sansa never thought to see again, and she hates to be the one to interrupt it.

“Have you come to watch me beat our princely brother?” Robb calls with a laugh, thrusting his sword with grace that Jon easily parries.

“Actually I came to deliver a letter to him.”

“We are in a fight to the death here, Sansa! We can’t just stop!” Robb grunts as Jon nearly knocks him into the dirt. “You’re distracting me!”

“It’s from Daenerys.”

They both freeze, their swords hanging in the air in a way that would be comical any other time. She extends the parchment towards her husband, and Jon frowns as he hands his practice sword to Rickon, who immediately tries to whack Robb with it. Jon reads the letter, looks at her, and looks back at the missive.

“Jon?” Ned ventures.

“The queen wants all Northern houses, including the wildlings settled on the Gift, to come to Winterfell to swear allegiance to House Targaryen.” His jaw tightening, he continues, “I’m to receive them and send word if anyone refuses.”

“If they’re swearing fealty to you here at Winterfell, no one will refuse,” Robb says, hissing in pain as one of Rickon’s swings connects with his shin. “You’re a Stark of Winterfell, a Northman, and you were the bloody Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. They know you and they’ll swear it.”

“But they’re not swearing allegiance to Jon; they’re swearing it to Daenerys and Aegon,” Sansa interrupts. “If she hears even a whisper of rebellion from us, if she thinks we’re allowing them to be disloyal – “

“I don’t think you understand – “

“No, I understand the consequences of perceived disloyalty far better than you ever will, and I’m not going to pay the price again!”

She doesn’t realize how shrill or loud her voice is until Ned sets a gentle hand on her shoulder. It is then she sees the entire yard is looking at her, some like Rickon shocked at her volume, others like Bran with pity in his sweet eyes, Arya with understanding. Sansa flushes with embarrassment, shaking her head and hurrying away, blind to where she is going but certain she needs to flee. She’s dimly aware someone is calling her name but it isn’t until she is in the godswood she realizes it is Jon, the letter still clutched in his hand.

“They have to swear allegiance to Daenerys, not you!” she cries, shaking with emotion, tears coursing down her cheeks. “We cannot afford another war!”

“I’ve no desire to have anyone swear allegiance to me, let alone fight a war with my aunt. No one is going to come for us, Sansa. No one will take you away.”

“You don’t understand,” she chokes out, near hysterics with no idea how to bring herself back to normal. “If she thinks we’re traitors, the things she can do – “

Jon takes her in his arms then, holding her firm against him. As she shakes and cries against his chest, he promises, “I would die a thousand deaths before I let anyone put a hand on you or Arya ever again. I told you I’d keep you safe and I meant it.”

“I won’t ever be a prisoner again, Jon. I won’t.”

She doesn’t spell out what she will do to keep that from happening, but from the way Jon holds her tighter, kissing the crown of her head and swearing it’ll never come to that, she knows he understands exactly what she means.

The Northern houses and the wildlings will arrive in a moon’s turn.


End file.
